How to Read a Poem gave me the motivation I desired. Hirsch speaks of poetry with ease and obvious pleasure. As a result, his essays about poetry just exude a “love of poetry” that is contagious (at least to me). Whenever I read poetry, I want to go and write my own. I am in awe of the ability to capture personal emotion and sensory experiences in perfectly crafted stanzas. Reading about how they are crafted only increases my admiration for the mode of writing. Although I still felt the craving to write poetry as I read this book, I also realized a sense of hopelessness in terms of my own creations: I’d rather simply admire other’s poetry.

Hirsch is, apparently, an accomplished poet. Obviously, he is also an incredibly well-read in poetry. These two aspects of Hirsch’s life gave the book a necessary depth and personality. He dosen’t write as an omniscient narrator: instead, he approaches poetry from his own life and experiences, and the result is heartfelt and intensely delicate. His passion for poetry is, I believe, why the second part of the title (“And Fall in Love with Poetry”) is what makes this book worth reading.

As a nonfiction tutorial in reading poetry, however, How to Read a Poem fell flat for me, the 100-page glossary/appendix notwithstanding (I didn’t read most of that). How to Read a Poem helped me approach poetry with greater admiration, but I honestly struggle with the idea of someone “helping” me read a poem. As I’ve read this, I’ve also been concurrently reading a volume of poetry (by Nikki Giovanni). It’s a well-annotated volume, with more than a hundred pages of end-notes explaining each poem, line by line, in terms of subject matter and style. I discovered that, while I’m normally a huge note reader, when it comes to poetry, I want to read poems for the enjoyment factor. I don’t necessarily need “help.” And if a poem is not either written well or intriguing in subject matter to engage my interest naturally, I am probably not going to appreciate the poem, footnotes of clarification not-withstanding.

That said, I will say that learning how poems are successfully formed does add to my appreciation for a poem. As I read the chapter about style (“A Made Thing”) and it discussed villanelles (a poem format that I absolutely love), I felt that seeing how the format created the emotional draw helped me to better love the poems. I “oohed” and “ahhed” over the villanelles. (Is there a collection or anthology just of villanelles? I must read it!)

Ultimately, although I enjoyed the enlightened foray into the “how’s” of poetry, I  wouldn’t suggest How to Read a Poem as a tutorial to poetry. His expansive understanding and personal connection to poetry provides an intruging collection of essays about the subject, but he never seems successfully teach: he only inspires.

For me, that was more than enough. I have added many poets to my “to read” list!

How do you read poetry? Have you had any “training”?

• A Poem in Your Pocket: Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins
• National Poetry Month + Call for Poetry Posts
• The Norton Introduction to Poetry + My Introduction to Poetry
• Divine Songs by Isaac Watts (Poetry Friday)
• Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins
• Poetry Friday: Christmas Poems
• A Selection of Poetry by John Donne
• Rose, Where Do You Get that Red? by Kenneth Koch + Reading with Kids Challenge
• Babylon in a Jar: New Poems by Andrew Hudgins
• Poetry for Young People: Lewis Carroll

My History (AKA Why This Book?)

When my son was a newborn, I noticed my husband was reading East of Eden by John Steinbeck. This was pre-book blogging days for me, and I was always searching for a recommended book to read. I did not yet have all my lists, and I honestly don’t know how I chose my next book to read. In retrospect, my book selection process appears to have been rather random. Now, I can’t imagine not knowing what my next book will be. At any rate, because I was intrigued by the passages my husband mentioned to me, I also picked East of Eden, not knowing much about the novel, and not even counting pages as I read it. (Now, I tend to look at how many pages a book is before I even begin!)

I finished East of Eden in February 2008, and I wanted to get feedback. What did others like about it? What was the main theme? How could I put into words just why this book was good? Certainly, fratricide and prostitution are not my normal reading fare, so there must be something special in it that captured my attention. I really loved the novel.

I wrote some brief posts on my personal webpage trying to capture just why I loved the writing, and why the themes of good and evil were so universal. And I got little response. My limited number of personal blog readers either hadn’t read it, or it had been so long since they read it that they didn’t remember it, or they didn’t care to read it. I was writing about my passion for a book for the wrong audience.

I began searching for other blogger reviews and discussions about this book. I began searching for lists of “if you liked this book, you’ll like that book.” I began planning my reading. I found the Pulitzer Project website and began reading the blogs listed on that site. And suddenly, I had a huge list of books to read, and a plethora of other readers who read what I wanted to hear about.

I’ve since copied those two posts to this site. They aren’t typical “reviews” and I did a poor job of capturing the novel for a general audience. But East of Eden prompted me to get thinking about the books I read, to write up my thoughts, and otherwise to read for my general enlightenment, and not just for entertainment.

Thoughts on My Second Read

My first read, I was impressed mainly with the writing, the overall themes of good versus evil. I stretched out my first read over a few months, when my son was an infant. I still noticed those same things on this read, stopping and gasping at the beauty of Steinbeck’s description of the poppies, for example:

And mixed with these [lupins] were splashes of California poppies. These too are of a burning color – not orange, not gold, but if pure gold were liquid and could raise a cream, that golden cream might be the color of the poppies. (page 4)

As with my first read, I loved the discussion of choice and the word timshel as it relates to the Old Testament story of Cain and Abel. This is a book about choice and human nature, and I love how it all comes full circle with one of the final words being “Timshel!”

On this second read, which I likewise tried to stretch out over many weeks, I was more drawn in to the characters, and I felt that the novel kept dropping characters I was most interested in. I was drawn toward Charles on this read (who I remember disliking a lot on my first read) and then of course, he was dropped and the story followed Adam. Then I found myself really drawn into Adam and Samuel and Lee’s relationship, and Samuel and Adam dropped out of focus while Lee and the twins (specifically Cal) took center stage. Who was this novel really about?

I think that is part of the wonderfully complexity to East of Eden. It has Biblical tones to it – after all, a central point is a conversation about Cain and Abel, and the title reflects on the fact that Adam and Eve were sent “East of Eden” after being cast out of God’s presense. Life is complicated, and the choices we face reflect on the past generation. Yet, we have our own choices here and now.

Just as with my first read, I don’t feel I can properly capture why I enjoy East of Eden. Although I finished reading it two weeks ago, I’ve put off writing this post, simply because even on a second read, I don’t feel I got all of it. I do have to say that I much preferred the first half of the novel to the second, and I think that is how it felt on my first read because the details in the second were not as clear to me. Adam and Charles’ relationship intrigued me much more than Cal and Aron’s, for some reason, and I sincerely missed Samuel Hamilton’s wisdom.

I picked up East of Eden again as a part of the Classic Reads Book Club, but I didn’t follow the reading schedule and haven’t joined in much of the discussion due to my busy life right now. I had intended to write thoughtful posts in the midst of my reread, but that didn’t happen. Would it be more clear now had I written all along? I don’t know. I just know that there is so much wisdom in this novel that I will have to revisit it for a third time in a few more years. This is going to be a touchstone novel for me, I think.

What do you think of East of Eden? Go to the Classic Reads Book Club and share your thoughts on their discussion questions if you want.

What is (are) your touchstone novel(s)? A touchstone novel is one that you’ll keep coming back to because of some depth you hope to get on the next read, or maybe because you read it at some important moment in your life that stuck with you. My other touchstone novel is Beloved by Toni Morrison.

• East of Eden by John Steinbeck
• Painting a Novel: East of Eden by John Steinbeck
• Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
• The Stranger by Albert Camus
• Milton in May: Paradise Lost, Books 4-6
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Introductory Thoughts)
• Any Interest in a May Read-Along of Paradise Lost?
• Reading Journal (10 Feb): The Joy of Reading Slowly
• The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (In Chancery and To Let)
• Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan

Although I like reading classics, I don’t know much. Before August of this year, I’d never heard of Wilkie Collins! I first experienced Wilkie Collins through The Woman in White (loved it!), and I recently read The Moonstone.

For this Circuit, I decided to read about his life. Although reading two biographies does not make me an expert, it’s been fun to read reviews now that I feel I know about the man! I hope this overview of Wilkie’s life interests you too.

The Biographies

I read two biographies of Wilkie Collins. The first attracted me because the title seemed appropriate for a writer of suspense. The Secret Life of Wilkie Collins by William Clarke gave me a fresh look into Wilkie’s personal life and the controversy and complications of his circumstances. It was written by the husband of Wilkie’s great-grandaughter, so he had a personal interest in proving the facts of Wilkie’s mistresses and children. The biography met those needs, it was well researched, and it was well notated.

Yet, Secret Life failed to give me a complete picture of Wilkie Collins as a popular writer, and therefore it left me wanting more. I turned to Catherine Peters’ comprehensive biography, The King of Inventors, to get a well-rounded perspective. Since Peters’ biography was published after Clarke’s, I should have gone straight there.

Peters’ biography was what I expect when I read a biography of a literary man. She looks both at his life and at his works. Peters details the controversies and unknown aspects of his personal and family life.  Then, for his most significant publications, Peters spends a few pages discussing why the books were monumental, which seems appropriate for one dubbed “King of Inventors.” Even though I skipped a few paragraphs when I was unfamiliar with a novel and therefore unable to follow the discussion, I was still able to understand the overall discussions about the breakthroughs Wilkie made in his writing.

As I have returned Secret Life to the library, all references below are to King of Inventors.

The Beginning

image via Wikipedia

From his birth in 1824, William Wilkie Collins looked strange, with a bulge on the upper right of his head, probably the result of a difficult birth. He was always self-conscious of his forehead, and his large beard in his later life may have been an attempt to distract from the unbalanced look of his head (pages 18-19). He also was horribly short-sighted throughout his life and had unusually small hands and feet.

His was named after his father, the artist William Collins, and his godfather, the Scottish painter David Wilkie. Wilkie (called Willie as a child) was not impressed with his father’s religious piety, and Peters’ suggests that Miss Clack in The Moonstone is part of Wilkie’s response to his father (page 306). On the other hand, Wilkie was always close to his mother, and lived with her until 1856 (age 32).

Although he spent only one year (age 13) touring Italy with his family, Wilkie considered it a “crucial” point to his development as a writer. Among other things, he learned about life outside of his own closed family circle. From my perspective, it seems he had a remarkable memory of people and places, able to rework the images in his mind into a story even many years later.

It’s good that Wilkie had memorable experiences in Italy, for he was teased at boarding school upon his return and was actually bullied into telling stories to the other boys; if a story wasn’t interesting, they’d bully him more (page 50). That was a good start for the budding novelist; he wrote his first novel (about Tahiti) as a teenager.

A Literary Man

His father may have wanted Wilkie to become a painter, but instead Wilkie eventually entered Lincoln’s Inn to study law. When his father died in 1847, Wilkie stopped working on his second novel to write his father’s biography, which he’d promised to do. Although Wilkie wanted to write novels, he realized that writing a good biography of a respectable painter may help him get in the door with publishers (page 76). He was right.

When I read The Woman in White and The Moonstone, I found it remarkable that an author could write such a coherent story over the course of more than a year of serialization. He had to know, from the beginning, how it would end. Wilkie Collins did: he wrote outlines and plans before beginning a novel so he would not have problems later. His contemporary writers particularly disliked the idea: “Such work gives me no pleasure,” said Anthony Trollope (page 392).

In his good novels, Wilkie brilliantly captures characters, settings, and plot. There is suspense as it had never been done, and mystery as it had never been written. He wrote about fallen women; he wrote about people with disabilities; he wrote about sexual tension.

Today, we may read his works and not think them extraordinary, but at the time, he was an inventor of a new type of fiction. Peters discusses most of Wilkie’s major works in detail, discussing how Collins is an “inventor.” I look forward to reading them now that I have a better understanding of how monumental they were!

A Ladies’ Man and a Family Man

Wilkie met Charles Dickens at the acting troupe of amateur actors (all artists and writers) in the late 1850s. Although Dickens was 12 years Wilkie’s senior, the two struck up an unusual bond, as Wilkie became Dickens’ favorite companion for “nightly wanderings in strange places” (page 98). Together, they traveled Europe frequently. (The first time they traveled together, Dickens was disgusted by Wilkie’s immaturity and cheap ways). Wilkie eventually worked for many years on Dickens’ staff at the serial magazine All the World Round.

Although Dickens worked hard to keep his subsequent affair with Ellen Ternan (which began in 1857) a secret, Wilkie Collins did not attempt to hide his two mistresses. This difference in dealing with a personal matter may have lead to the rift between the two writers in later life.

Wilkie supposedly had his first love affair in Rome at age 13, and from then on he was unabashed in flirtation. In 1858 (age 34), he began to live openly with the widow Caroline Graves, who had a young daughter (called Carrie). Supposedly, Wilkie met Caroline in a situation that inspired the opening story of The Woman in White, but there is no solid evidence of that (see page 191). Caroline was not of middle-class upbringing, but Wilkie did not like dinner parties and the physical restrictions of the middle class, so that appealed to him (page 195).

In the late 1860s, Caroline left Wilkie and married another man. Her marriage did not take, for she returned to Wilkie soon afterwards, who had, by that time, begun a second liaison with Martha Rudd, a young woman with an even lower upbringing. Yet,

Martha herself was an incarnation of the courageous and independent-minded young working women Wilkie had always found touching and intriguing. (page 294)

Martha and Wilkie went by the alias of Mr. and Mrs. Dawson, and Wilkie was to father three children. Wilkie loved being a father, and the children often traveled with him and Caroline (Martha was, apparently, not respectable enough to travel with him).

Although Wilkie Collins was quite a ladies’ man, it probably won’t surprise his readers to know he liked a woman who could think for herself.

Though he was far from conventionally attractive, Wilkie had the ability to charm and amuse women of all ages. He wooed them with his story-telling, with comic verse and intimate affectionate letters. … Though Wilkie was not in the least interested in female emancipation, he liked women who where intelligent and gifted and spoke their minds. (page 122)

I found it strange to read that he doesn’t have any interest in female emancipation, since it seems that his books have strong women: I would have thought he would like to support women and free them from Victorian class status. He lived with one woman and had three children by another, so this life style seems in conflict with the message his novels share. Peters brings up this issue. She herself asks that question and then answers it:

How could Wilkie continue, though out his association with Martha,  to write polemical roman a these in which ‘fallen women’ were reinvigorated into society through marriage to great-hearted, unconventional radicals, fighting to break down class barriers? Though he thought the legal forms quite irrelevant, he took care to keep ‘readers in general’ contented with a conventional happy ending. (page 297).

Wilkie Collins, in other words, was still rather Victorian in his attitudes. He treated the women in his life well, from his perspective, but from my modern perspective, it seems he used them as he pleased. Caroline was always referred to as his “housekeeper.” Martha was a “kept woman” (she had a very generous living allowance), literally stuck with raising his family. When I understood that Martha was unable to escape the situation if she had wanted to, it seems sad to me. That said, both woman (from this distance) seemed happy with their lives.

An Ill Man

For much of his life, Wilkie struggled with “rheumatic gout,” a type of arthritis. Wilkie’s gout returned at times of stress, such as when he was under pressure to write a serial. Occasionally it attacked his eyes, and he would dictate to Caroline’s daughter, Carrie (page 335). From the early 1860s, he began taking laudanum (tincture of opium) for the pain. By the time he died in 1889, he was taking enough each day to kill twelve people (page 336).

In later years, his writing deteriorated. After The Moonstone in 1868, Wilkie did not write another such successful novel. There were some modest successes, but nothing to the same extent of his early writing. After an unpopular serial novel, magazines would not serialize his next. They even suggested that he was too literary (and therefore too expensive) for their household magazine (page 395).

Wilkie also took the time to tour America and Canada, but he was not as popular there. He also struggled to retain copyright in America; his publications were constantly underscored by illegal pirated versions, both in print and on the stage.

Peters mentions that Wilkie’s successes at the theater were detrimental to his novels. Earlier in his career, he would write a novel (such as Armadale) and then later in his career, he’d adapt it for a theater production (Miss Gwilt). In later years, he would write a novel with a theater production in mind. Thus, his later novels have less character development and more theatricality and dialogue.

Peters also suggests that he was stale.

Little of his work after The Moonstone transcends its era and the limitations of the sensation genre. By comparison with the novels Wilkie Collins wrote in the 1860s, many of the later ones seem flat and dated. (page 313)

Wilkie’s favorite writers throughout his life were Honore de Balzac, Sir Walter Scott, Lord Byron, and James Fenimore Cooper. Although they might have been influential in the beginning of his life, by the end, these were still his favorite, and he had no taste for the newer styles of fiction out there. So, while Wilkie began as an “inventor” of new types of fiction, in the end he began to resent those who invented new fiction (see page 377-8 and 420-421).

In the end, whether it was his opium addiction that brought about less clear descriptions, or his desire to put moral lessons in his novels, or his own inability to see the world in a cutting-edge way, Wilkie Collins lost his ability to consistently write engaging novels. His last years were hit or miss. When he died, his estate was worth just over £10,000, much less than he’d have expected. As specified in his will, the money was divided between the families of his mistresses. Although he’d intended for them to live well, they vanished into obscurity. Probably due to embarrassment at their own illegitimacy, his three children went by the name of Dawson for the remainder of their lives.

In Conclusion

Wilkie Collins’ life is almost as fascinating as his sensational novels. One of the aspects of Peters’ biography that I loved was her detailed discussion of the books Wilkie wrote: particularly the inspiration for the story and the ways in which each book was innovative for Victorian England. I don’t, however, have the time or space to detail all of them. If you are interested in Wilkie Collins (and this post still hasn’t fulfilled your craving!), I’d highly recommend Peters’ biography, The King of Inventors. It really puts Wilkie’s Victorian literature into context.

Also, check out the rest of the Wilkie Collins Classic Circuit.

• The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins
• My Victorian Summer: We Two by Gillian Gill and Armadale by Wilkie Collins + Reading Journal
• Victorian Second Helpings (The Moonstone by Collins and North and South by Gaskell)
• Reading Journal (16 December): A Classics Circuit TBR List from Wilkie Collins to Harlem
• A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
• March by Geraldine Brooks
• Why Women Should Rule the World by Dee Dee Myers
• Jane Austen: A Biography by Carol Shields, a Quote Book, and a History of England
• Reading Journal (18 Nov): Planning for a Quiet December
• Founding Mothers by Cokie Roberts

Margaret Atwood’s The Door was published in 2007, and as such is a reflection on life from a position of maturity. Atwood was born in 1939, and the poems reflect her growing realization that she is aging. Some of the poems are sad. Some seem almost bitter. The volume I got from the library also had an audio disc of Atwood reading half of the poems – a touch that gave these poems a personality beyond the mere(!) words.

One has to be careful not to interpret poetry as autobiographical, for often it is not. But even if these poems are fiction, they are so real, I felt they were real. I felt Atwood was telling me something about her life: she was telling me what it is like to be almost 70 years old, reflecting on the world, a life, and a career.

Can you tell I enjoyed reading this volume of poetry? After I read it all, I listened to the audio. And then I reread some of the poems, hearing her voice. Atwood’s poetry is more emotional and I’d suggest slightly more complex than Billy Collins’ poetry (reviewed here). But I still think it’s highly accessible to one unfamiliar with poetry.

This titular poem is absolutely a perfect poem. In a sense it captures the entire book, as it is capturing a life through an image of a door opening and closing. In the beginning, you are scared of the spiders inside the door. Then, you don’t even notice it because you’re going to a dance. By the end, you step in. “The door closes.”

Yann Martel writes:

“The Door” … is about, well, about life, all of it, the living of it and the meaning of it, all seen through the metaphor of a swinging door and all in two pages.

Go read it right now. I can’t find it online or I’d link to it. It’s so very good.

The sections of the volume seemed to follow the various stages of watching the door, i.e., the various stages of life and experience.

Section 1 of the volume has poems that are a reflection on childhood memories and connections: the hearth of the home. A childhood pet dying; revisiting a dolls’ house as an adult; a father’s story; mother dying (this was one of my favorites, called “My Mother Dwindle…”; read it online here). The last poem in this section “Crickets,” brings it all together, comparing crickets to the familiar ant-and-grasshopper analogy:

As for the crickets, they’ve
been censored. We have
no crickets on our hearths. We have no hearths. (page 19)

Section 2 is a reflection on a literary career. This was by far my favorite section, from “Heart” which talks about how her heart (i.e., poetry) has been sold, leaving her heartless (read it online here), to “Owl and Pussycat, Some Years Later” in which Owl (who I believe to be Atwood) reflects on their life to her college friend Pussycat:

The worst is, now we’re respectable.
We’re in anthologies. We’re taught in schools,
with cleaned-up biographies and skewed photos. (page 33)

Section 3 is a reflection on the tragedies of life. Two that stood out to me were “Ten O’Clock News,” which reminds us how much we want to ignore the tragedies around us, and “War Photo,” in which the narrator strives to immortalize a dead woman in a photo (another one of my favorite poems; I can’t find it online for you to read).

Section 4 is the hardest section for me to place. In fact, I didn’t understand some of the poems in it. I think Atwood’s poems are trying to get beyond the tragedy of life and back to the everyday. “Enough of These Discouragements” and “Possible Activities” are more about of the monotony of every day, I think, but “The Line: Five Variations” is a bit too different for me to place.

Section 5 is reflection on aging and dying. “Boat Song” is about a band playing as a ship sinks; “Dutiful” and “String Tail” are reflections on a lifetime of doing what other people want, and wondering why. “The Door” ends the volume, and was also one of my favorite poems in the collection. The end was a great place for that poem: save the best for last.

After I wrote this post, I found a couple of other reviews, including Wikipedia’s description of the sections of this book. The others are very good at talking about poetry and interpreting it. I’ve never even read a poem by Margaret Atwood before. Please keep in mind that I’m not a poetry critic; I just like these poems. I’m still learning how to read poetry and I have no idea how to talk about it. (In fact, reading the other reviews makes me rather embarrassed for how unofficial I sound.)

Should I stop trying to talk about poetry? I could just say “I liked it.” I wonder if my attempts to understand the poems really help anyone trying to decide if they want to read it.

Have you read any of Atwood’s poetry? What’s stopping you?

I picked up this volume for the Martel-Harper Challenge.

Other Reviews:

• The Guardian
• What is Stephen Harper Reading?
• Bookslut
• So Many Books, So Little Time

If you have reviewed The Door on your site, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

• Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins
• A Selection of Poetry by John Donne
• Poetry Friday: Christmas Poems
• Poetry for Young People: Lewis Carroll
• A Poem in Your Pocket: Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins
• Chicago Poems by Carl Sandburg
• The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
• The Collected Poems of Nikki Giovanni
• Babylon in a Jar: New Poems by Andrew Hudgins
• How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry by Edward Hirsch

The writing was beautiful. I loved Pearl Buck’s almost Biblical prose that just flowed like poetry. And yet, probably a dozen times, I almost stopped listening to the audiobook. The main character, Wang Lung, drove me crazy, and the blatant mistreatment of women by all the characters irked me throughout. It was difficult to persevere to the end. And yet, since it was written by a woman who lived in China for much of her life, I figured she had a deeper point behind the misogyny. I finished it.

I will probably revisit it sometime for a fresh perspective, because it is deeply interesting and the writing was so beautiful. However, I can’t now say that it is a favorite book of mine. It was difficult to listen to.

The Good Earth tells the saga of one man’s life in peasant China. I assumed it was the late 1800s, but the time period was hard to place. In the first scene, Wang Lung is a very poor farmer on his wedding day, about to marry a slave girl from the great house of Hwang. As his luck variably changes for both good and ill over the years, the land is his constant: he turns to the cool, dark soil to walk and work in. In the end, he is an old man, about to die, and ready to turn the land over to his sons.

My favorite character in the book was O-lan, Wang Lung’s wife. She was a woman who labored in the fields with him all day and then returned home at night to give birth utterly alone. She cooked and cleaned his home without rest, literally running herself to the ground as her health deteriorated. She never cried until the very end of her life, and those tears were because she was unloved. This woman was a slave from childhood until her death day simply because she was born female.

That is all Wang Lung saw her as, throughout his life: his wife was his slave in every possible way. All women and even young girls when born were called “slaves,” and parents did not count them when numbering their children. “I have three sons,” Wang Lung would say, discounting his two girls. When, in the midst of famine, O-lan gives birth to a girl child, the child mercifully “dies” so they no long have to feed it. It was heart breaking to me to see Wang Lung so quick to discount O-lan as nothing. He never even gave her a chance. He never truly understood what it was to love, although the closest he came to love was his tender care for his helpless daughter, who was left mentally retarded after severe starvation in her infancy.

As I listened to the audiobook, I kept thinking of the fact that a woman wrote this: Why did she want to illustrate the horrible status of women in peasant China? Were men and women still so unequal in the 1930s when she wrote this book?

To me, a woman, it was depressing to listen to. It was a powerful illustration of the life of a peasant struggling to create something greater in his life. And yet, I struggled to see beyond the mistreatment of the woman in this book. I don’t know the answers as to why Pearl S. Buck wrote this book. But I do know I would have to reread it a few times before I can truly put in to words all that this is about! There is so much there. Maybe next time I read it, I won’t be blinded by the plight of the women.

The Good Earth won the Pulitzer Prize in 1932. Pearl S. Buck won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1938.

Did the discrimination against women in this book bother you?

How do you deal with historical fiction that has uncomfortable themes? I assume, reading this book, that such treatment of women was standard for the time period. It still bothered me to read it, though.

Other reviews:

• Caribousmom
• Musings
• Joyfully Retired
• Age 30+
• Lotus Reads
• Lesley’s Book Nook
• Books for Breakfast
• Good Clean Reads
• The Zen Leaf
• The Armenian Odar Reads

If you have reviewed The Good Earth, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

• Stories by Anton Chekhov
• Why Women Should Rule the World by Dee Dee Myers
• Snow Flower and the Secret Fan by Lisa See
• The Makioka Sisters by Junichiro Tanizaki
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Favorites)
• Beloved by Toni Morrison
• The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
• Library Summer Reading Programs Completed!
• Life and Times of Michael K by J.M. Coetzee
• Two Stories by Turgenev

Rose, Where Do You Get that Red?

In a detailed introduction, Koch describes how he teaches children from third grade to sixth grade how to write poetry using classic poems as examples and frames. Then, in ten chapters, he details ten writing prompts using ten different poems (by William Blake, John Donne, Wallace Stevens, Shakespeare, Wallace Stevens, Walt Whitman, and others) and then provides examples of student poetry. He concludes with an extensive 150-page anthology of other poems that may work in elementary and middle school classes, with one line explanations as to how to teach them.

As a mother, a reader, and a want-to-be writer, I found Rose, Where Do You Get That Read? to be highly interesting . It emphasized to me that children are intelligent, that good classic poetry can be read and understood even at a young age, and that I can learn from poetry much as children can. It reminded me that just as the teacher didn’t expect the students to understand every part of a poem, I don’t have to understand every part of a poem to enjoy it and apply it to myself. Just as the teacher encouraged students to think about their own dreams, I can apply poems to my own imaginary worlds.

I admit that I skimmed some of the children’s poetry sections; while they were amazingly good for third and fourth graders, for example, they still were children’s poems, full of awkwardness. Because I skimmed some of those sections, this 300-page book was a quick read.

What I was most interested in was the selections of poems Koch suggested for children. All of his suggested poems were complicated and deep (“A Valedicition: Forbidding Mourning ” by John Donne, for example, has so many layers it’s mind-boggling), and yet his suggestions for teaching them to children were fascinating.

On the Donne example, he says:

The appeal of this poem for children is that it offers them new things to write about (science and math) and shows them how they can use these things to talk about tender and passionate feelings in an indirect way, without being embarrassed.  (page 50)

And then here is one of the student examples, this from a sixth grader (Stephen Sebbane):

Our Feeling

Our love is like two waves dashing together
No one can separate us, not even the shore
My hatred for your ex-boyfriend is like the way oil and vinegar repel.

Wow. Now, I won’t argue that that is a great poem. (Koch himself observes that he does not address revision at all in this book). However, I think it’s awesome that a young kid can apply his own feelings in a metaphor much as Donne did (Donne using the image of a compass). A child could still get something out of Donne’s poem, complicated as it is.

I knew that William Blake wrote “The Tyger” for children, so including that was expected for me. Even that, however, is difficult for children in this day and age. And yet, Koch points out that

Restricting children to poems supposed to be on their age- or grade-level deprives them of too many good things. They get more out of genuinely good poems than out of mediocre ones, even if the better poems are difficult in some ways. (page 179).

I’m convinced! Now I hope that my little son doesn’t mind if I read him poetry regularly through his life. I like it.

I highly recommend Rose, Where Did You Get That Red? if you are an educator. But even if you are not, it’s inspiring to see how good poetry can be applied to you yourself, and it may give you inspiration for your own poems.

Do you read poetry to your children?

Other Reviews:

If you have reviewed Rose, Where Did You Get That Red? on your site, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

Read with Kids Challenge

Speaking of reading with your children, USAirways has partnered with Reading is Fundamental to sponsor the Reading with Kids Challenge from April 1 until June 30, 2009. They are hoping to log 5 million minutes of parents reading to kids. There are prizes too, but I’ve joined simply because I love the challenge to read with my son more. My goal is to read 2,500 minutes with him from April 15 (when I started counting) until June 30.

I try to read to him from a chapter book for about 20 minutes each morning. He plays with his toys and otherwise enjoys being awake while I read. I know he doesn’t necessarily understand what I’m reading, and he probably doesn’t care if I’m reading or not, but I like the time I spend reading with him. I also read him picture books before bedtime. He is getting better at sitting still and participating in the reading!

My goal of 2,500 minutes comes to about 35 minutes a day. Since I currently aim for at least 20 minutes a day, I think that is reasonable.

How much do you read to your kids every day? Why don’t you join this challenge to read to them more in the coming months?

• Reading with Kids, Defined
• April in Review
• A Selection of Poetry by John Donne
• A Poem in Your Pocket: Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins
• Poetry Friday: Christmas Poems
• Poetry for Young People: Lewis Carroll
• Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins
• Babylon in a Jar: New Poems by Andrew Hudgins
• How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry by Edward Hirsch
• Divine Songs by Isaac Watts (Poetry Friday)

Florey’s tone is personal throughout the book – she reminisces of her own first experiences with diagramming, first when she visited a friend’s school while in fifth grade, then in sixth grade in her parochial school, where Sister Bernadette put the “barking dog” sentence on the board. Florey recalls why she liked diagramming so much, and throughout the book, she throws in geeky humor. It felt like she was trying to be as funny as, say, Mary Roach was in Stiff (thoughts here). But it kind of reminded me of me: I try to be funny but don’t always come across as funny. Florey’s “funny” was kind of distracting sometimes. She was also incredibly critical of George W. Bush’s grammar time and again, without mentioning many other politicians. I don’t personally like George W. Bush (grammar or politics) but it still got very exhausting to hear repeatedly about how dumb he is, especially for such a short book (150 pages).

But despite (or perhaps because of) the overall geekiness of sentence diagramming, I enjoyed reading Sister Bernadette’s Barking Dogs. It caused me to reminisce on my seventh grade class, when Miss Canning first put a diagramed sentence on the board. I liked diagramming because English suddenly became dividable and measurable, like math but still with words. There was a place for each word of the sentence, and it was a tricky assignment to get it right. I enjoyed it very much.

Florey does go beyond reminiscences. She details the birth of diagramming (Reed and Kellog), some very general rules of diagramming, and modern writer’s opinions of diagramming. She debates whether or not learning to diagram helps improve writing, and shares diagrams of the sentences written or said by various writers and politicians. Then she delves in to why sentence diagramming is no longer in fashion. She even visits a junior high class room today that is diagramming sentences: it sure sounds like fun to me! (Why, oh why, don’t kids do it anymore?!

My paperback copy of Sister Bernadette’s Barking Dog is used; one or two pages have some pencil writing in the margins. But the cover is fully intact and it looks (and feels!) like a new book.

Does this book sound like one that might interest you? Did (or do) you like diagramming? I’d like to send Sister Bernadette’s Barking Dog to someone interested in sentence diagramming.

To be entered into the giveaway, tell me at least one of these things:

• Who taught you diagramming that first time? (Who was your “Sister Bernadette” or “Miss Canning”?)
• When or where did you first learn diagramming?
• Why do you like diagramming (or the idea of diagramming)?

I’ll randomly select a winner next week.

If you have reviewed Sister Bernadette’s Barking Dog on your site, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

• Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov + Giveaway
• Childhood Reads
• Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss, the illustrated version
• A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
• Stories by O. Henry (and Another BBAW Giveaway)
• March in Review
• The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
• The Book That Changed My Life, edited by Roxanne J. Coady and Joy Johannesson + Giveaway
• Rose, Where Do You Get that Red? by Kenneth Koch + Reading with Kids Challenge
• Chicago, Chicago!

Exercises in Style by Raymond Queneau is a collection of the same story, written 99 different ways.

Some of the stories are fascinating retellings in various styles. Some are stereotypes (feminine , cockney, Gallacism, exclamations), some are in different perspectives (past, present, blurb, ignorance), some are different styles (noble, comedy, cross-examination, notation, sonnet, ode), and some are rather odd (dog latin, permutations by groups of letters).

Exercises in Style is short and sweet. It sets out what it was trying to do: show how style can change a story, depending on either the narrator or the particular way of writing. Some of them were a perfect example of the impact of style, while others seemed odd to me. In the end, it was a quick read that gave me ideas for developing my own writing style – and it gave me ideas for fun practice in imitating others and changing voice.

My favorite of all of the styles was the last style: Unexpected. It was the most creative, and showed to me that we can take a simple, rather boring story and add something interesting to it in the end.

I’m going to do my own 99 exercise in style. These will be over at my writing webpage (info here). I’ve written four (at that link), and I’ll be doing more. I think this is fun. I’d love if you share any little exercises you do too!

Other Reviews:

• booklit

If you have reviewed Exercises in Style, please leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

• Too Young for Books?
• Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino
• What is Reading? and Audiobook Review of The Book Thief
• Moses, Man of the Mountain by Zora Neale Hurston
• On Writing by Stephen King
• Stories by Anton Chekhov
• Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges
• The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron
• The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins
• Caldecott Corner: David Wiesner

I loved reading Vladimir Nabokov’s short stories a few months ago because his control of language is so powerful, although I did feel that some of his stories were rather odd. Nabokov’s novel Pale Fire is similar in that it is both odd and powerfully written. It is a masterwork of creation: who but Nabokov would have thought to write a book like this? In fact, Pale Fire is so odd, I have a hard time calling it a novel.

Pale Fire has two main parts. One part is a 999-line poem (about 30 pages) by the recently deceased (fictional) John Shade. The other part is (fictional) Professor Charles Kinbote’s commentary on the poem (about 185 pages). Nabokov has expertly woven a completely unrelated commentary in with a fairly coherent poem. Trust me: it is funny, in a subtle way.

In his forward, Kinbote carefully explains that we should begin with reading his commentary, and only reference the poem on occasion. Kinbote believes his commentary shares the real meaning of Shade’s poem.

I did not trust Kinbote’s instructions for reading the book, just as I didn’t trust most of what he said. And yet, there is a humor behind his conceit and pride. From the beginning of that forward, the reader began to suspect that something was not quite right with Kinbote and his commentary. Kinbote has his own story to share, all about his native country of Zembla, and he sees everything through that filter. Kinbote’s conceit got on my nerves to some extent. Others in my LibraryThing Group Reads group seemed to think it was laugh-out-loud funny. I laughed out loud a little, but by the end I was a bit tired of Kinbote’s long-winded discourses on Zembla.

I think the true genius behind this story is how the poem and the commentary do coincide. They don’t coincide in the ways that Kinbote wants them to, but there are influences of Kinbote on Shade’s text. I think it was a clever idea for Nabokov to “misinterpret” his own poem (since, of course, he actually wrote all the writing and created all the characters). It seemed to me that Nabokov is, in a sense, mocking all who analyze poetry too much: he’s showing a completely distorted “interpretation” of a poem.

But I think the deeper purposes behind this book are beyond me. On Wikipedia, there are some speculations on Nabokov’s actual meaning behind Pale Fire, including a quote from Nabokov. (The article has spoilers so I’ll avoid quoting them here.) I thought Pale Fire was making fun of people who look for hidden meanings, so I have a hard time believing in Nabokov’s own declared hidden meanings. I think he’s making fun of us there, too. But then again, I was one of the people in the group read who didn’t look up every unknown word (there are lots of them in “Kinbote’s” erudite sentences). Maybe I’m just not looking hard enough; Pale Fire, I thought, didn’t need all that much looking.

In the end, I am torn between thinking Pale Fire is genius because of how Nabokov set it up and being completely annoyed by Kinbote’s self-conceit and cluelessness. I do ackowledge that it was a fascinating concept and somewhat amusing to read, albeit irritating at points.

I read Pale Fire for the 9 for 09 Challenge (“Used.”) I purchased it for $2.50 at a used book store in November. This soft-cover, 1968 copy has a fully intact cover (albeit ugly), all the words, and yellowing pages. If you are interested in reading Pale Fire, I’ll send it you. Let me know if you are interested; I’ll choose a winner Friday.

If you have read Pale Fire, did you think it was serious or a joke? I’m leaning toward the joke myself.

Other Reviews:

• 5-Squared (Amanda)
• Rose City Reader

If you have reviewed Pale Fire on your site, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

• Stories by Vladimir Nabokov
• A Meme, A Farewell, and A Giveaway Winner
• Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
• Poetry Friday: If by Rudyard Kipling
• March in Review
• Sister Bernadette’s Barking Dogs by Kitty Burns Florey + Giveaway
• A Poem in Your Pocket: Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins
• Milton in May: Comus and Lycidas by John Milton
• Reading The Iliad by Homer, trans. by Robert Fagles
• Milton in May (erm, and June): Paradise Lost, Books 10 to 12 + Two Reading Aids

The back cover gave up the main crux of the story, but reading it was still worthwhile.  I’ll try to avoid spoilers: A man living a pretty meaningless, boring life, finds his life changed dramatically. And yet, to him it doesn’t matter. Life is life because he lives it. Does it matter how he lives it?

Albert Camus was a philosopher often given the label of “existentialist.” According to Wikipedia, he resisted that label and instead claimed he delved “deeply into individual freedom.” Reading The Stranger after my brief introduction to philosophy last month was interesting because it brought the philosophy of ethics to light. The main character of The Stranger acted without considering what was ethically right or wrong. He acted based on impulse, and failed to regret what he did. His inability to express remorse translated into his downfall.

Albert Camus’ writing was amazing, and while the book was odd and somewhat uncomfortable in its themes, it certainly stayed with me, despite its brevity.

For more information, Wikipedia discusses the philosophy behind The Stranger (with spoilers). While the story was straight forward and not unnecessarily full of philosophy, to completely understand the character, one needs to understand the philosophy. I defer to others for that; I’m sure I missed a lot.

I read this for the 9 for 09 challenge, under free (received via Bookmooch). I could also categorize it as “ugliest cover in the world.” (Mine had this cover.)  I also read it for the Nobel Challenge.

What is the strangest book you’ve read recently?

Other Reviews:

• A Guy’s Moleskin Notebook
• 5-Squared (Amanda)
• 5-Squared (Julie)
• 5-Squared (hamilcar barca)

If you have reviewed The Stranger on your site, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

• Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov + Giveaway
• Hunger by Knut Hamsun
• The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde
• Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar by Thomas Cathcart and Daniel Klein
• On Writing by Stephen King
• February in Review and March Reading Journal
• Ella Minnow Pea by Mark Dunn
• My Life, According to Literature
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Introductory Thoughts)
• Anthem by Ayn Rand + A Giveaway

For me, Possession‘s strength lies in this powerful creation. While I enjoyed the developing action (it is a literary mystery) and the powerful underlying themes, the story itself was not as fascinating to me as were the basic descriptions and the power of the characterization. They were marvelous: I am in awe of Byatt’s power with words.

Within Possession, Byatt has created two fictional Victorian writers, the prestigious Randolph Henry Ash and the obscure Christabel LaMotte, inserting the incredible poetry and stories, supposedly written by these writers, into the text. I loved the poetry (especially the poem “Swammerdam”) and felt these poets must be real; after all, I was reading their work. Byatt tells the story of the Victorian poets mostly through their own words, in poems, letters, and journals.

But the story of Possession is two-fold, focusing not just on the Victorian happenings but also on modern events. Two modern-day literary research scholars, the low-level Ash researcher Roland Mitchell and LaMotte expert Maud Bailey, uncover evidence that the two Victorians had corresponded. Undertaking a quest to find out the truth of what happened in the 1850s, Roland and Maud become overwhelmed and yet intrigued with their discoveries and seek to hide it from the other scholars. As Roland and Maud discover more about Ash and LaMotte from beyond the grave, they find out about themselves.

Possession is called, in the subtitle, “a romance.” Possession is very sensual and (as a modern novel) it is also sexual. As I read, I kept thinking of this quote from Foster’s How to Read Literature Like a Professor (reviewed here):

When they’re writing about other things, they really mean sex, and when they write about sex, they really mean something else. (p. 144)

So what does Byatt really mean? I think she is sometimes writing about possession of one person by another. But she’s also writing about the possession of ideas and ideals; the possession of self; the possession of information; the possession of words; and, overall, the possession of power through words.

And that last theme is, I believe, Byatt’s own purposes coming through. She’s obviously an incredibly talented writer. As she ponders writers long-since dead, she realizes the power of words, and as she creates poets through their words, she shows us how words can hold us and convince us.

I started reading Possession at Thanksgiving when I had the flu; it was not a good time to read it, and I put off reading it again for two weeks. When I did pick it up again, I was overcome by the power in it. I’d suggest reading it when you can think clearly (the Victorian prose can be a bit dense while in the middle of a flu-induced stupor) and prepare to be overwhelmed by Byatt’s words. It is powerful.

P.S. I mourn the loss of love letters in today’s society. Sigh.

Other Reviews:

• BiblioHistoria
• Musings
• The Magic Lasso
• 5-Squared (Amanda)

If you have reviewed Possession on your site, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add it here.

• The Book That Changed My Life, edited by Roxanne J. Coady and Joy Johannesson + Giveaway
• National Poetry Month + Call for Poetry Posts
• The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck
• Judging a Book By Its Cover Again
• Père Goriot by Honoré de Balzac
• The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (In Chancery and To Let)
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Introductory Thoughts)
• The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron
• To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
• The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

His writing in these stories is so well done that I, a very amateur writer, feel the urge to try my hand at capturing the images around me, a task I will surely fail because I know I will never even remotely measure up to Nabokov’s incredible talent.

The unfortunate aspect of reading more than 60 of Nabokov’s short stories in one month is that the characters he so adroitly creates, the settings he so carefully draws, and the feelings he so perfectly captures are, for the most part, miserable, gloomy, and ultimately depressing. Also, some of his stories have fantastical elements that failed to resonate with me, and most dwell on negative aspects of human nature – subjects that weren’t pleasant for reading in bulk.

But I feel that the overall quality of Vladimir Nabokov’s writing is so extraordinary that he should be read simply for the marvelous experience that comes from reading his words, even if the reader doesn’t necessarily consider the negative underlying themes amazing.

Nabokov’s Style

Unlike the concise Ernest Hemingway, Nabokov uses many words to write his poetic stories. Some paragraphs are longer than a page; sentences are five lines long. It’s very dense, but, to me, beautiful.

Through his wordiness, Nabokov carefully creates a scene, as did James Joyce, and the scene seems to be imperative to many of his stories.  Also like Joyce, Nabokov’s purpose or theme for each story isn’t revealed until the end. While Joyce’s stories often left me confused (revealing my ignorance, I suppose), Nabokov’s left me depressed. Sometimes the abrupt endings are a sort of epiphany and sometimes they are just the result of the character’s actions, and we, the readers, must determine Nabokov’s aim.

In that way, Nabokov’s writing reminded me of Anton Chekhov’s stories. Both authors seemed to describe every-day people (peasants in Russia for Chekhov; poor Russian émigrés living in Berlin for Nabokov) living their lives, with a sudden realization (either for the character or the reader) in the last moments of the story illustrate the depressing state of human nature, life, and relationships.

Guy de Maupassant also wrote about the dirty side of human nature. But, while Maupassant’s stories ended up being funny, Nabokov’s stories rarely had humor (although I may have missed any high-brow humor). Some of the stories with fantastic elements reminded me of Edgar Allan Poe‘s or Washington Irving‘s stories. (In fact, one story appropriately refers to Rip Van Winkle.)

In the end, Nabokov has a style completely his own. Just as I felt after reading Flannery O’Connor‘s stories, I can’t place his style and themes into a category with any other short story writer.

Favorites

As I mentioned, Nabokov’s stories tend to be rather sad. My two favorite stories happened to be the least unpleasant. A number of other stories have also stayed with me.

Two Stories

In “First Love,” a man reflects on his first love. In the course of his description of a childhood summer’s events, it’s unclear to the reader whether his first love was traveling by overnight train; swimming at the beach; learning about butterflies; or meeting the little French girl, Colette. This story doesn’t have much plot or grand finale, but it is a beautiful story that I’ve already reread three times.

“The Vane Sisters” was the story that Harold Bloom recommended in his How to Read and Why book list. In this story, a man reflects on his relationships with two sisters, one of whom was once his girlfriend.  It also is incredibly subtle. (Highlight to read spoiler.) Nabokov’s subtle ending tells us that this man’s life really hasn’t been all that affected by the life and then the death of these sisters. It’s kind of depressing for the sisters, but an interesting realization for the man. It made me think about my own life and relationships. What impact do certain people have on me? For example, how often do I think about old boyfriends? Did they really impact my life significantly?

Other Stories

While I can only see myself rereading those two stories, there are a number of other stories that I keep remembering, even after starting the next story. Note that I do think Nabokov’s writing improved through the years; if you read the 60+ story volume as I did, start in the middle or go backward.

Here are some that stayed with me, with short introductions.

• “That in Aleppo Once…” His wife never existed, he’s sure of it.
• “A Forgotten Poet.” A dead poet arrives at the banquet held in his honor.
• “A Guide to Berlin.” One man recounts the small details of Berlin.
• “Music.” At a recital, a man sees his ex-wife across the room.
• “Perfection.” A very proper tutor is asked to take his young charge to the sea shore.
• “The Visit to the Museum.” A man goes to a museum to acquire a painting for a friend – and gets lost inside.
• “An Affair of Honor.” A man finds that his wife is having an affair with his friend, an ex-cavalry man, and he must fight a duel to save his good honor.
• “A Slice of Life.” The woman once loved him; now that his wife has left him, he has come to her to get drunk and commiserate.
• “The Dragon.” A dragon awakes after his ten-century slumber.
• “The Fight.” The elderly man he sees at the beach is also the bartender; he observes one night’s bar fight.
• “The Potato Elf.” A small dwarf in the circus seeks love.
• “Terra Incognita.” A group of bug collectors in the tropics get sick, lost, and angry at one another, as told from the perspective of the ill, delirious man.
• “The Reunion.” Two brothers, one living in Russia and one an émigré in Germany, meet after ten years.
• “Breaking the News.” The elderly, deaf woman’s son has died, and no one wants to tell her.
• “Cloud, Castle, Lake.” A man is forced into his first vacation, and he’s hoping that he’ll find the elusive happiness he seeks.
• “The Thunderstorm.” A man awakens in a storm to see Elijah dropping his mantle for Elisha.

The Bottom Line

Have I made myself clear? Maybe not. To be safe, here it is as clearly as I can write it:

Read Nabokov’s short stories, at least one or two. His writing is incredible.

Have you read already read Nabokov’s stories? What did you think? How would you describe his writing style and the themes he writes about?

Note: Because Vladimir Nabokov’s stories are not in the public domain, I cannot link to them online. Here is Wikipedia’s information about him.

• Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov + Giveaway
• Bookworms Carnival: Relationships
• Stories by Tommaso Landolfi
• Stories by Flannery O’Connor
• Stories by O. Henry (and Another BBAW Giveaway)
• Stories by Ernest Hemingway
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Favorites)
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Introductory Thoughts)
• Stories by Nathaniel Hawthorne
• Love in a Fallen City and Other Stories by Eileen Chang

The Program

Julia Cameron’s premise in The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity is that creativity is a spiritual issue. By nurturing your inner spiritual needs, you are able to unleash the God-given creativity within you.  For me, it seemed Cameron’s “spirituality” was synonymous with “positive self-worth.” The Artist’s Way, then, was a much-needed reminder that I am an artist and that I do have creativity within me already.

Cameron’s definition of spirituality is not the same as mine; I consider myself “spiritual,” yet I wonder if her constant referral of “creativity” as a God-given spiritual power would be a “turn off” for those that don’t. If you are turned off by the “spiritual” reference in the subtitle, I’d say still give this book a try.

But The Artist’s Way is not just a book: it is a twelve-week program for recovery of creativity. We are to write our daily fears, worries, and joys down on pages every day; we recite affirmations to ourselves; we eliminate from our lives the destructive people who might hinder our creativity; and we rely on God to heal our broken creativity.

Each week, the program participant focuses on recovering creativity in the following categories:

1. Safety
2. Identity
3. Power
4. Integrity
5. Possibility
6. Abundance
7. Connection
8. Strength
9. Compassion
10. Self-Protection
11. Autonomy
12. Faith

What’s to Like

A main recovery for blocked artists is to write “morning pages.” The morning pages are to be written by any recovering artist (potter, architect, film-writer, etc.) and are stream-of-consciousness rambles and nonsense not intended to be read. This is to give voice to negativity of your life so you can focus on what really matters. I think this could work well: it’s a great idea.

The Artist’s Way also encourages artists to take risks and to let themselves have the luxury of being creative. As the reader progresses through the program over the course of the twelve weeks, the artist is continually challenged to do and be more. It takes work to be an artist, and the artist needs to make sure to take opportunities before they are lost. The Artist’s Way can help you see the opportunities around you.

Cameron seems to urge the reader to leave the jobs and people who discourage away from creativity, and move forward toward his or her dreams. It’s never too late!

Her words are definitely inspiring and helpful to artists afraid to take a step. It is a book to help artists re-find the self-esteem that teachers, parents, and others inadvertently discouraged away.

What I Didn’t Need

When I first started reading this, boxes were piled in every room from our international move, and the baby was still adjusting to a USA time zone (in other words, awaking at 5 a.m.). Now, my baby is just learning to walk, and we are perfecting a post-move new budget. The wonderful ideas Cameron suggests cannot possibly work for me right now. I wish I’d found this book lat year when I had more “abundance” in my life! Yet, her point is that we always have abundance if we allow ourselves.

Julia Cameron encourages artists to take the time to write in the morning pages each day, write for another hour every day, and take a break every week for an “artist’s date.” Get a sitter if you have children, stop serving other people, and serve yourself for once! If you don’t let yourself do these things, she suggests, you aren’t giving yourself the luxury you deserve.

After about 50 pages, I realized why I disagreed: My baby is my luxury. I waited a long time to be a mother. I have the further blessing of staying home with my baby, and to me, it is a blessing. Serving others, particularly my baby, is a great way that I feel spiritual; if I only served myself all the time, I’d feel very depressed. My life must be about service to others!

Cameron would suggest that I’m afraid to start being creative, so I’m using my baby as an excuse. Maybe. But she does ask the reader to ponder what gives us true joy (page 110), and we are encouraged to pursue that. I realized that I already am pursuing it: my baby gives me true joy.

By reading The Artist’s Way, I’ve been inspired to seek moments of creativity. I won’t write a novel this month, but I’ll start writing the morning pages.

Toni Morrison (quoted on page 97) says:

We are traditionally rather proud of ourselves for having slipped creative work in there between the domestic chores and obligations. I’m not sure we deserve such big A-pluses for that.

I completely agree. I try to slip in my creativity, but that’s not how it’s nurtured. If I’m serious about writing, I must be serious when I write. It should be my career.

But writing is not my career now, and I don’t resent that at all. I don’t want to give up the life I love.

Someday, I’ll revisit The Artist’s Way to properly rekindle all of the creativity within me.

Have you read The Artist’s Way? What did you think about Julia Cameron’s ideas for creativity and indulging your own creative spirit?

• A Bite of the Spice of Life (Two Books by Julia Child and Too Many Cooks by Emily Franklin)
• A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle
• The Creative Family by Amanda Blake Soule
• Reading Journal, October 6
• My Introduction to the Harlem Renaissance
• A Few More Things
• The Alchemist by Paulo Coehlo
• On Writing by Stephen King
• A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf
• A Caldecott Celebration by Leonard Marcus

Hemingway’s stories are poetry: that is my first and lasting impression of Ernest Hemingway’s short stories. In his short stories, Hemingway treats words as sparsely as do poets.

I don’t usually understand or enjoy poetry because it feels so much must be inferred or interpreted. (After I finish reading the HTR&W short stories, I’m reading a number of poets for my HTR&W personal challenge. I’m a bit nervous.) While reading Ernest Hemingway’s stories, I likewise felt the need to infer and interpret beyond my comfort zone: I didn’t “get” them and I certainly didn’t enjoy reading the few stories I read. While I’ve only read a dozen of Ernest Hemingway’s short stories, I’m finished.

That, however, doesn’t mean you should avoid Hemingway’s stories: they may resonate with you, and you may love his writing style. He does a magnificent job of capturing a scene through dialog. Hemingway is worth reading.

Two Stories to Read

While I didn’t love any of the stories, there are two I would recommend others read. “The Snows of Kilimanjaro” follows an unsuccessful writer as he dies of gangrene in the middle of an African hunting camp, stranded after his vehicle broke down. It is a story with two aspects: one part follows the dialog he has with his wife, and one part follows what he is thinking and all the stories he wished he had written.

The second story I’d recommend is “A Clean, Well-Lighted Place,” which I’d read before and is probably the most well-known of his stories. In that story, a deaf, widowed old man who has recently attempted suicide sits and drinks late into the night in a café. One waiter essentially kicks out the old man because he wants to go home, while the other waiter contemplates on how the café is a nice place to sit, and everyone needs a place.

I like the stories behind these, and I like the summary of them as I write them up now (although I know I did a poor job, since there is lots of symbolism in them that I’ve missed). What I disliked about Hemingway’s stories was the writing style. The stories were dialog driven, and the parts that were not dialog (such as the writer’s thoughts in “The Snows of Kilimanjaro”), felt like run-on sentences (although all were grammatically correct). His stories also end abruptly, as did James Joyce’s stories that I read last week. Hemingway was not a bad writer; he is brilliant at controlling each tight scene. For me, however, the style was irritating: I’ve decided that Hemingway is just not for me.

HTR&W

When I picked up How to Read and Why to see what Harold Bloom had to say about Ernest Hemingway, I found that he began by discussing how Hemingway’s stories are poetry. At least I was “right” in noticing that aspect. Bloom points out all the symbolism in his favorite stories, a lot of which I missed, despite having read the stories a few times. As I mentioned, I did like “The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” which he discussed. But I really disliked “Hills Like White Elephants.” The other two stories he recommends are “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen” and “A Sea Change,” which I similarly disliked, though not as much.

The Finest American Short Story Writer?

Apparently, Ernest Hemingway is the definitive American short story writer. I hope not; I really didn’t enjoy his stories. You might love them, though. Don’t take my word for it!

Have you read Hemingway’s short stories? Which was your favorite? My volume of The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway isn’t due at the library for a few weeks yet; tell me your favorites and I’ll give him another chance.

• Stories by O. Henry (and Another BBAW Giveaway)
• The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway
• Stories by Vladimir Nabokov
• How to Read and Why: Short Stories Retrospective
• Stories by Flannery O’Connor
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Introductory Thoughts)
• Abandoned Book: Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
• HTR&W: What Is a Short Story?
• The Student by Anton Chekhov: A Perfect Short Story
• Two Stories by Turgenev

I picked up Stephen King’s memoir, On Writing, because it seems to be a commonly recommended book for aspiring writers. I’ve never read any Stephen King. I am not often drawn to best-selling authors. (By best-selling author, I mean an author who writes a book every year that ends up selling millions of copies.) I’ve heard of Stephen King, of course. Unfortunately, I found little in his memoir about writing that helps me in my personal craft. I think his memoir should have been named On Writing Best-Selling Horror Novels.

There were a few gems in On Writing, most of them obvious. For example, to improve your writing, you need to make the time to write. (King suggests a goal of words, like 4,000 a day: I think “quantity” as a standard is ridiculous.) He also discusses the need to read good writing (obviously) and learn grammar so you can actually write (doubly obvious). However, for me, the most inspiring thing I learned was the realization I had every time I picked up On Writing: I don’t want to be a best-selling author.

My General Thoughts about Writing and Books

I feel that there is a big difference between writing well and writing a story. A superior novel (or short story) needs both aspects: just because an author has created a great story and written it does not mean it is good writing. Also, I feel very strongly that quality is more important than quantity. An author can write one book and be a great author; an author can write 35 novels and be mediocre (although they certainly have a great imagination and a knack for turning out books for publication). I also feel intended audience and subject matter is important to keep in mind when approaching writing.

Stories and Writing: Many best-selling books are great stories, but not great writing. For example, I think the Harry Potter series is a great story. I am in awe of J.K. Rowling for having an imagination to conjure up such a world! I have read the series and I enjoyed it. However, I do not think J.K. Rowling is a good writer. Her writing is contrived and repetitive. (I may be unpopular among die-hard fans, but I believe it is true!) I feel many of the best-sellers also lack the good story element: they neither are good stories nor contain good writing. I read them sometimes, but I read them knowing that they are not great. Sometimes I may be pleasantly surprised.

Quantity and Quality: The more novels a popular writer publishes, and the more frequently those are being published, the less likely I am to read their books. There may be some gems, and I’d love to give those highly recommended gems a try, but overall, I can’t stand the thought of writing that has been produced in such a short time: can we really call that quality? For an analogy, I think “quality” writing is like risotto: I know I can’t rush risotto. If I do, the creaminess is missing; to produce good risotto, I must stir it constantly for 30-40 minutes. To produce good writing, I think it’s necessary to polish it again and again. (King has four drafts of each novel. Yeah.)

Audience and Subject Matter: Stephen King is obviously a horror novelist. I guess he has found his calling in life, but I found even the summaries of his novels disturbing. I have no desire to think outside the box if that is the result! I would never be proud of what I’ve written, if that is what I’ve produced. Even 35 novels worth; even for millions of dollars.

For me in my writing, I’ve determined that I want to write quality letters, stories, children’s poems, and prose. I especially want to write for my family, friends, and others whom I respect. As Stephen King described his methods to arriving at his “success,” I realized I have no desire to write the next best-seller.

The Main Reason I Didn’t Like On Writing

The biggest reason I have no respect for Stephen King’s advice in On Writing is this one comment (encapsulating the above issues):

I’ve written thirty-five [novels] … On the other hand … there is Harper Lee, who wrote only one book (the brilliant To Kill a Mockingbird) … [names other authors who wrote few books] … I always wonder two things about these folks: how long did it take them to write the books they did write, and what did they do the rest of their time? . . . I’m probably being snotty here, but I am also, believe me, honestly curious. If God gives you something you can do, why in God’s name wouldn’t you do it? (page 118)

Excuse me, Mr. King? Did you just compare your horror novels to Harper Lee’s novel? How dare you?!

I guess this goes back to the fact that I’m not drawn to best-sellers. I have the stereotype in my mind that best-sellers do not contain good writing and probably lack good stories. Stephen King thinks he is being snotty, but I found it painful to read his comparison of his 35 horror novels to a masterpiece like To Kill a Mockingbird.

Obviously, some best-sellers are well-written and come to be considered “masterpieces.” I’m generalizing here. However, best-sellers, in my mind, are nothing compared to real writing. In Stephen King’s case, I’m sure he may be a creative (yet disturbed) story teller, but he is not a good writer (in my definitions). With that one paragraph, I lost the little bit of respect I still held for him. He thinks he writes like Harper Lee!

I may offend people. More likely, you will think I’m being “snotty,” just like Stephen King claims he was being “snotty” to criticize Harper Lee for writing only one book. But this is what I’ve learned from Stephen King’s On Writing: popular, best-selling authors think they are also good writers. That may be true sometimes, but generally, I don’t believe it.

What do you think? Do you expect “best-sellers,” in general, to contain “good writing”? Is an author a “good writer” if they have published dozens of novels?

By reading On Writing, I learned that if I want to write and I want ideas on how to write, I should read authors I respect. I hold no respect for Stephen King, 35 horror novels or not.

Have any good writers compiled their thoughts on writing? No, probably not. They have better things to do.

I was more inspired to write a few months ago when I read a masterpiece. I guess I’ll stick to reading masterpieces for my inspiration.

Other reviews (from those who probably liked it more than I did):

• 5-Squared (Amanda)
  

If you have reviewed On Writing, leave a link in the comments and I’ll add your link to this post.

• What Are Banned Books? (Do I Favor Book Banning?)
• Golden Legacy by Leonard Marcus
• The End of Publishing?
• Will in the World by Stephen Greenblatt
• Stories by Guy de Maupassant (Introductory Thoughts)
• Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose
• King Lear by William Shakespeare
• Stories by Edgar Allan Poe
• A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle
• The Student by Anton Chekhov: A Perfect Short Story

“The firm foundations of common sense, the shrewd shots at uncommon sense, that characterise all the Fables, belong not to [Aesop] but to humanity.”

I agree to some extent: the themes in Aesop’s fables are universal. However, I also believe that Aesop (whomever he was) had an amazing ability to capture familiar human traits in such simple “impersonal” fables of just 3-10 sentences. We read them today because they remain relevant. After reading the fables attributed to Aesop, I believe Aesop does deserve every bit of the fame granted to him.

Aesop’s Fables as Concepts, Not Strict Morals

To my surprise, reading Aesop’s fables as an adult was an educational experience.

As a child, I had an illustrated collection of Aesop’s fables with about 20 stories. Each story was illustrated with one line underneath the picture:

Moral: _______

I always thought Aesop was very didactic.

To my surprise, upon reading the 1912 unabridged translation of Aesop’s fables, I found that less than half of the fables have a conclusion at the end (none say “moral” first). But those without a conclusion “spelled out” still have significant morals: thinking is required to ascertain the morals, although you can read to be entertained if you prefer. The need to search for the moral surprised me at first, but it was ultimately refreshing to read something that wasn’t “spelled out.” Aesop’s fables are not just for children: they are for all of us.

Some of the “moral” fables were very clever; my favorite was, hands down, The Milkmaid and Her Pail. I read the unfamiliar story and was surprised by the familiar conclusion: “Do not count your chickens before they are hatched.” Chesterton claims, “There is only one moral to the fable; because there is only one moral to everything” but I disagree. One could have chosen a different moral for this story, but this one was a perfectly clever. Adding the moral helps the reader draw the connection the writer “intended.”

I was going to list my favorite fables, but there are too many. If you read one, read The Milkmaid and Her Pail.

Aesop’s Fables as Universal

To me, Aesop deserves his fame because he so expertly captured human nature in short snippets, whereas today authors labor to capture characters. Obviously, today’s authors strive to develop character complexities; as I read Aesop, I was delighted by how carefully he did capture each character’s essence in a limited space. It’s a different but admirable talent.

Most of Aesop’s stories are delightful snapshots that I recognized from elsewhere in literature (although I recognize that Aesop created them first). For example, in The Swollen Fox, the fox goes into a small space, eats too much, and is unable to escape. He is told to wait until he loses the newly gained weight. This reminded me of Winnie-the-Pooh’s situation in which he got stuck in a tight place. (I read it to my son a few months ago, so it was on the mind.) There were also some great fables that explained how things came to be, just like Kipling’s Just So Stories (for instance, the turtle carries his house on his back because he was too lazy to answer the summons of a god). Familiar literary themes and stories were rampant.

If you are a writer looking for ideas, read some of these fables and find out how to adapt them or use the concepts for your own story. Most of them are universal and could (carefully) be adapted.

Aesop’s Fables as Caricatures of Humans

In his introduction, Chesterton claims that, while fairy tales “revolve on the pivot of human personality”, in fables “all the persons must be impersonal.” Thus, to him, it is essential that the fables are formed around animals; the stereotype of clever fox does not distract us from the underlying concepts. Chesterton claims that if the clever fox were replaced with a clever human, the human foibles would distract us and we’d assume the human would make different choices.

In many cases, this is true. As I read his fables, I wasn’t distracted by all the foibles of humans; there wasn’t space for Aesop to expand on a human’s personality. I enjoyed the retreat to a world where animals said what they were thinking. Chesterton has a point.

On the other hand, a few of Aesop’s fables relied on human presence to carry the message. Some of the fables with humans didn’t work and others felt dated because they referred to cultural traditions or places or Roman deities that are no longer familiar to the reader. But sometimes a human was necessary, such as in The Boy Who Cried Wolf, which could not be told without a human as a liar. The boy in such a story was certainly impersonal because there was no space to develop him.

Ultimately, I was not convinced that animals were required for fables, although I certainly appreciate the need for “impersonal” characters.

My Conclusion and Your Turn

I began reading Aesop’s fables thinking I wouldn’t have much to say, and yet, here I am writing a very lengthy post simply trying to capture my reactions to these 100 pages. That, to me, is a testament to the enduring power of Aesop’s words.

In his introduction, Chesterton said that the fables attributed to Aesop are as familiar to us as learning the ABC’s because they are the basis of human nature. Despite the failings of some of the fables, overall, I believe Chesterton’s statement is true: we regularly face Aesop’s fables in books and movies every day.

Here are my questions for you:

1. Do children need a “moral” at the end to clear it up? Do they need the moral at all?
2. Which Aesop’s fables have you noticed in novels, stories, and movies?
3. Fables = animals; fairy tales = humans: yes or no?

• Ingenuity and Authority: Who Really Wrote Aesop’s Fables?
• Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton
• Animal Farm by George Orwell
• Two Books by Eric Carle
• Bookworms Carnival: Fairy Tales
• The Jungle Book(s) by Rudyard Kipling
• The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus by L. Frank Baum
• Castle Waiting by Linda Medley
• Little Women by Louisa May Alcott
• Foundation by Isaac Asimov

This memoir is the first in a series of memoirs called “The Crosswicks Journal.” She approaches it as a journal of one summer living in her country house, called Crosswicks. But her journal doesn’t follow a chronological review of her summer; rather, she explores who she is as a woman, a writer, and an individual in the community. She says:

One of the most helpful tools a writer has is his journals. Whenever someone asks how to become an author, I suggest keeping a journal. A journal is not a diary, where you record the weather and the engagements of the day. A journal is a notebook in which one can, hopefully, be ontological.…[A journal is] a place where you can unload, dump, let go.… A journal is also a place in which joy gets recorded, because joy is too bright a flame in me not to burn if it doesn’t get expressed in words. (page 197)

She keeps a wonderfully refreshing journal in this book: it is an exploration of who she is. As a woman, a want-to-be writer, and a member of a community, I found her insights intriguing. Throughout the memoir, L’Engle claims that to be a writer, we first need to come to terms with who we are as an individual. She got me thinking: Why do I want to write? Who am I as a writer?

I found this book to be a relaxing, slow read. I would read a few pages, pencil in hand to mark passages that stood out to me. Then I’d read another book or go care for my son. The next day, I’d reread a few of the marked passages and read a few more pages. I don’t think I read more than 50 pages a week. As such, I was reading this for about a month and a half. But I didn’t find this a problem. In fact, I’m glad I own a copy of it so I can review the passages I enjoyed.

I am not certain I will reread the entire book. It doesn’t have a plot and I found it hard to follow her progression of thinking. However, there are many sections that really stood out to me. I’ve marked them for a reread at some point. Some highlights:

She discusses limits in children literature (1970s).

The more limited our language is, the more limited we are; the more limited the literature we give to our children, the more limited their capacity to respond, and therefore, in their turn, to create. The more our vocabulary is controlled, the less we will be able to think for ourselves. We do think in words, and the fewer words we know, the more restricted our thoughts. As our vocabulary expands, so does our power to think. (page 149)

Let’s not be afraid to use “regular” words in children’s books! there is no need to “dumb it down.”

She discusses children’s versus adult books.

If it’s not good enough for adults it’s not good enough for children. If a book that is going to be marketed for children does not interest me, a grownup, then I am dishonoring the children for whom the book is intended, and I’m dishonoring books. And words. (page 198)

I totally agree with her. I don’t want to read lousy books and I think if I find it lousy, it’s not quality enough for my son to be reading (of course, he’s still only an infant, so I have a number of years before he’ll come home wanting to read Captain Underpants…).

She discusses how we, as writers, are inextricably connected to our community.

No matter how fantastic a story line may be, it still comes out of our response to what is happening to us and to the world in which we live. (page 97)

I found this the case with A Wrinkle in Time when I reread it last month: it felt like it took place in Anytown, USA, even though it was taking place throughout the universe, because the themes and characters were recognizable to me.

She explains why we write.

If something deep within even the most tentative and minor of artists didn’t think his work was good, he would stop, forever. (page 27)

Of course. It’s all been said better before. If I thought I had to say it better than anybody else, I’d never start. Better or worse is immaterial. The thing is that it has to be said; by me; ontologically. We each have to say it, to say it our own way. (page 28)

She compares writing a book to having a baby.

I have a friend, a beautiful and talented young woman, who is afraid to have a child and who is afraid to use her talent to write. She does not yet understand the joy that follows the pain of birth. I’ve experienced the pain and joy of the birth of babies and the birth of books and there’s nothing like it: when a child who has been conceived in love is born to a man and woman, the joy of that birth sings throughout the universe. The joy of writing or composing or painting is much the same, and the insemination comes not from the artists himself but from his relationship with those he loves, with the whole world. (page 49)

I need to abandon my fear of writing and just do it. I wouldn’t give up my little child for anything.

She explains why we need to read.

[After grandmother’s funeral, I picked up a book.] I do not think that this [retreating into a book] was escape or evasion. The heroine of the book had her own problems with loneliness and anxiety and death. Sharing these, being totally in this different world for an hour or so, helped me understand my own feelings.

I love this! It so succinctly explains to me why I feel compelled to read, rather than do any number of other things.

She discusses great literature and why we need to read it to prepare to write.

A great novel, rather than discouraging me, simply makes me want to write. This response on the part of any artists is the need to make incarnate the new awareness we have been granted through the genius of someone else. (page 147)

My favorite quote from the book:

A great piece of literature does not try to coerce you to believe it or to agree with it. A great piece of literature simply is. (page 201)

There are so many more things in this book that inspired me to read, write, and think about myself. I think it’s necessary to be aware of our place in the world, and I appreciate L’Engle’s reminders and insights.

Don’t expect a page-turner, but this book is a circle of quiet in the midst of the page-turners of the world.

Have you read this book? What did you think and what stood out to you? In the comments, link to your review if you have one.

• A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
• On Writing by Stephen King
• The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron
• The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck
• The Life of Wilkie Collins (Biographies by Clarke and Peters)
• Speak, Child: The Illiad as the Infancy of Children’s Literature
• Why Women Should Rule the World by Dee Dee Myers
• The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton
• Medea by Euripides
• Aesop’s Fables with Introduction by G.K. Chesterton

A Wrinkle in Time was rejected by a number of publishers before it was finally accepted and published in 1962. It subsequently won the 1963 Newbery medal. This is encouraging for all the rejected writers out there! If you believe in your work, keep submitting it!

I enjoyed reading A Wrinkle in Time as a teenager, and I enjoyed rereading it as an adult. Coming back to it, it surprised me how quick the story line moved and how short the overall book was. I guess that’s children’s fiction for you!

In A Wrinkle in Time, a stereotypical awkward teenager (Meg) must use her strengths (which she didn’t realize she had) to conquer evil. Meg, her brother, and her friend must rescue Meg’s dad, and they must travel through the universe to find him. It is an engaging good versus evil story, and the fantasy elements are so nicely woven in to the characters, the setting, and the storyline that I forget that Meg’s world isn’t the world as I know it today.

A Wrinkle in Time was rejected by publishers because the publishers considered it too “scary” for children (see A Circle of Quiet by L’Engle). To me, it addresses the elements children are already aware of: good versus evil, love versus hate, strength versus weakness. It’s a great story for children.

Did you like this book?

Other reviews:

• You Can Never Have Too Many Books

If you have reviewed A Wrinkle in Time, leave a link in the comments!

A Wrinkle in Time is the first in a series. I haven’t read the others. If you have read them, I’d be interested to hear what you think of them.

• A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle
• Uglies by Scott Westerfeld
• The Two Towers by J.R.R. Tolkein
• The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkein
• East of Eden by John Steinbeck (Thoughts on a Reread)
• I Kill Giants by Joe Kelly and JM Ken Nimura
• East of Eden by John Steinbeck
• To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
• A Stop in South Africa (Two Novels by Alan Paton) + Giveaway
• Animal Farm by George Orwell

Writing guides, grammar books, punctuation how-tos . . . do you read them? Not read them? How many writing books, grammar books, dictionaries – if any – do you have in your library?

I love writing guides, grammar books, dictionaries, etc. When I studied English in college I borrowed (I must have borrowed because I can’t believe I would have sold it again!) someone’s copy of Merriam Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage. I loved it and would just sit and read it.

I previously worked as a proofreader in (1) a scholarly environment (while in college), then (2) in a business environment, and then (3) at a publisher. When times got slow, I’d sit and read (1) Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary of English Usage and Chicago Manual of Style; (2) The Gregg Reference Manual; and (3) The Chicago Manual of Style and the in-house style guide. I love Chicago style the best, but like I said, I have a soft spot for the Usage Guide: 900+ pages of basic usage debates (and everything is a debate). It’s great. It’s been more than a year since I’ve been in that world. Sigh.

As for how many I own: sadly, I don’t own many. I had some of the reference manuals in college, but I sold them to other students. I always had them in the office at work for obvious reasons, so I didn’t need my own. I own a Merriam-Webster dictionary, but it’s sitting in storage in Chicago while I live in Australia. I debated taking it until my husband pointed out that we have an online subscription to Merriam-Webster (http://www.m-w.com) unabridged. That is definitely worth $29.95 a year. After a year relying on the internet, why would I need the hard copy any more? It’s so much easier to search online, unabridged none-the-less.

I once owned the online subscription to the unabridged Oxford English dictionary, but at nearly $300 a year, that wasn’t worth it. I think my local library in Chicagoland had a subscription, anyway.

I don’t think it’s necessary to own those things any more. Roget’s Thesaurus and Merriam Webster’s is online, and it’s easier and much more time efficient to search online. But, I’m always interested in “how to get started writing” books and some day I hope I can sit down with M-W’s Dictionary to English Usage again. Those were good old days. Sigh.

What’s your thought? Link to your answer if you want!

• Magazines I Would Love to Read
• Booking Through Thursday: Mayday!
• Doomsday for My Book Sources
• The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester
• Sister Bernadette’s Barking Dogs by Kitty Burns Florey + Giveaway
• Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss, the illustrated version
• Graphic Novels Challenge
• Thoughts on Blogging and Reading + HTR&W Giveaway Reminder
• Reading in Spanish (Neruda’s Poetry and La casa en Mango Street by Cisneros)
• Animal Farm by George Orwell

I thought “showing” meant describing the character in a context: hair color, quirks, and personality traits, mentioned as the story unfolds. Here’s a silly example I just thought of: “She tossed her mousy brown hair over her shoulder, crossed her arms in front of her, and narrowed her dark brown eyes as the wicked man sauntered toward her.” With that type of description, I can picture what is happening: the movie is playing and I don’t need to guess what people look like or how they react to a situation.

Steinbeck does not do that. He steps aside from the plot development to show us who these characters are. This could be boring—but it is not when Steinbeck does it. Here are a few paragraphs describing Liza Hamilton.

Liza Hamilton was a very different kettle of Irish. Her head was small and round and it held small round convictions. She had a button nose and a hard little set-back chin, a gripping jaw set on its course even though the angels of God argued against it.

Liza was a good plain cook, and her house—it was always her house—was brushed and pummeled and washed. …

She wore her hair always pulled tight back and bunned behind in a hard knot. And since I can’t remember how she dressed, it must have been that she wore clothes that matched herself exactly. She had no spark of humor and only occasionally a blade of cutting wit. She frightened her grandchildren because she had no weakness. She suffered bravely and uncomplainingly through life, convinced that that was the way her God wanted everyone to live. She felt that rewards came later.

(Part 1, Chapter 2)

Steinbeck’s approach gives us a description of this woman as if he were describing a photograph (her head, her nose, her chin, her hair) and we can picture Liza in our minds because the description gives us the information a photograph would. But Steinbeck is also able to give her a personality: Liza Hamilton becomes real to me. As a result, as the novel progresses, I am able to anticipate how she would react simply because her character is so full of life. That is hard to do.

And guess what? She was real: Steinbeck based Samuel and Liza Hamilton in the novel on his own maternal grandparents of the same name. That underscores what I’ve always known: write what you know about and it will come alive. By extension, if a writer doesn’t know a character (or a setting or time period)—her personality, physical description , and personal history, for example—he can’t truly describe her so the reader feels he knows her too.

Have you ever looked at an oil painting up close? Some strokes of color are thicker than others; each stroke of paint leaves a texture. The painting may not look like a photograph: the colors will be different and the artist’s interpretation of the person, place, or thing will be different from the “real thing.” But often there is a texture that makes an oil painting much more interesting than a photograph would be.

Steinbeck writes an oil painting. He paints the characters, the setting, and the decades. I recognize the textures as I read the novel. It feels rich and full of life, and I love to read it. Truly, this texture helps make it a classic.

I have much more to say about East of Eden. But, for now, tell me: can you recommend any other novels that you feel “paint” the characters, the setting, and the time period? I want to read more.

(Previously published on a personal blog on February 21, 2008.)

• East of Eden by John Steinbeck (Thoughts on a Reread)
• East of Eden by John Steinbeck
• Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
• Masterclass in Photography by Michael and Julien Busselle
• Foundation by Isaac Asimov
• The Green Knowe Chronicles by L.M. Boston
• Dubliners by James Joyce
• The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (In Chancery and To Let)
• The Adventures of Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi
• Father Brown by G.K. Chesterton